


Call And Answer

by veronamay



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Episode Related, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-21
Updated: 2011-08-21
Packaged: 2017-10-22 21:46:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/242906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is excessively pale, John is incredibly ranty, and a lot of unnecessary tea is made.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call And Answer

**Author's Note:**

> There are many post-TGG fics, but this one is mine. Mostly h/c froth with a bit of earnest hetero-lifemating thrown in. Totally self-indulgent. Title stolen from Barenaked Ladies, which song I admit influenced me rather a lot. I regret nothing.
> 
> Endless thanks to [lemmealone](http://archiveofourown.org/users/lemmealone/pseuds/lemmealone) for beta.

_Tea._

John stared at the word for a moment. Then he took a measured, even breath and put his phone back on the desk. It was the thirty-fourth text he'd received since Sherlock's release from hospital the previous afternoon. It was now nine-fifteen in the morning, and John was beginning to not-so-idly wonder how loose the definition of 'justifiable homicide' could be.

It took him a few seconds to refocus on the article on his laptop. It was an in-depth piece on some of the more complex areas of forensic pathology; a bit outside his experience to date, but since moving into Baker Street he'd found his interests ranging a bit outside the usual offerings of _The Lancet_ and the BMJ. He was out of practice with researching, so it was a bit of a stop-and-start process, but if he was going to be living with Sherlock for any length of time there was no doubt the information would come in handy.

His phone chimed again.

 _Tea NOW_ , it demanded.

 _Bugger off_ , John told it, and turned off the ringer.

Assuming he didn't kill Sherlock with his bare hands and use his newfound knowledge to hide the body, of course.

There were thirty seconds of blissful silence, and then:

_TEA._   
_TEA._   
_TEA._   
_TEA._   
_TEA._   
_TEA._

The phone buzzed its way closer to the edge of the desk with each new message, heading for technological oblivion by way of smashing on the floor. He was tempted to let it go just to enjoy Sherlock's resulting frustration, but his thriftiness got the better of him and he caught the phone just as it tipped out of sight.

"All _right_!" John shouted at the ceiling, and instantly the barrage stopped. He ground his teeth and stuck a post-it note to the side of the laptop screen to mark his place, then stomped into the kitchen.

Five kettle-slamming, cup-rattling, _sotto-voced_ -cursing minutes later, John elbowed his way through Sherlock's bedroom door and deposited a mug of strong, sweet tea on the bedside table.

"There. Tea," John said. "Now drink it, _quietly_ , and go to sleep like you said you would half an hour ago."

Sherlock sniffed and turned a page in the gigantic book balanced on his updrawn knees. He was swathed in quilts and his strained breathing was audible from across the room. John suspected he was reading like that because he didn't have the strength yet to hold up the book.

"Took you long enough," Sherlock said, not looking up. "What can you possibly be doing that's more important than tending to your patient, Doctor?"

"Don't start," John warned. "If it were up to me you'd still be in hospital. I only agreed to your coming home early because you promised to rest and do as you're told. Which promise you have completely reneged on so far, by the way. Keep it up and you'll find yourself in the back of an ambulance so fast your head will spin."

Sherlock responded with another haughty sniff, and hunched further over his book in silence. John stood there for a moment longer, studying the grey tinge to Sherlock's sweaty skin and the purple-black rings under his eyes, then retreated from the room without further comment.

He muttered, "Brat," as he made his way back downstairs, but this time the familiar epithet didn't make him smile.

* * *

_Tea is too strong_ , John's phone informed him.

Ten minutes. That was all he wanted. Just ten minutes of peace without Sherlock texting or emailing or leaving a blog comment or banging on the wall for attention (a fun way to lurch into wakefulness at three a.m., only to learn that Sherlock was not in fact having an attack of nocturnal dyspnea but merely wanted his laptop). From the way John's phone was once again tango-ing its way across the desk, it didn't look like he was going to get it.

John closed his eyes and slowly counted to ten. Then he went into the kitchen and made Sherlock another cup of tea.

When he took it into the bedroom, Sherlock was buried under the bedclothes: two quilts plus a thermal blanket. The only visible part of him was his shock of dark hair and one bleary, glaring eye. John watched Sherlock watch him exchange the rejected tea for the fresh cup, and clicked his heels together when he was done.

"Anything else, Your Majesty?" John asked.

"Piss off," Sherlock muttered, and buried his face in the pillows.

John shut the door behind him and determinedly ignored the hoarse, tired strains of Sherlock's voice.

* * *

_THIS IS NOT TEA. This is beige-coloured milk-water. Did you forget to put teabag in?_

"One," John said, still holding the phone. "Two, three, four--"

_Also, tepid._

If he were a cartoon character, John thought, there'd probably be steam coming out of his ears right about now. He could almost feel his blood pressure rising. Bloody Sherlock and his bloody imperious demands, as though John had nothing better to do than wait on him hand and foot all day when it was _Sherlock_ who--

He threw himself out of the chair and spent the next five minutes concentrating very hard on making what was possibly the best cuppa in the history of tea. Then he drank it. Then he spent another five minutes thinking about absolutely nothing while he made another.

"Here," he said, kicking Sherlock's door open. "This is the textbook-perfect, eighty-degrees-Celsius, three-and-a-half-minutes-brewed, cup-warmed-beforehand sodding _epitome_ of tea. It has precisely one-and-a-half teaspoons of raw sugar and a thimbleful of whole milk. If you tell me there's something wrong with it, chances are very good I will tip it over your head."

Sherlock blinked at him from under his nest of blankets. He glanced from John to the tea and back again, and his lips pursed in consideration.

"Changed my mind. I want coffee," he said, and coughed into his fist.

When John didn't immediately respond, Sherlock looked up. John saw his eyes widen as he caught the look on John's face. He couldn't be sure, but he thought Sherlock might have shrunk back just a bit further under the blankets. John bared his teeth in something that bore only surface resemblance to a smile.

"You're not getting coffee," he said pleasantly. "The last thing you need is caffeine. You shouldn't even be getting tea. In fact, since you don't want this, I'll just take it back downstairs and drink it myself, while you _go to bloody sleep_."

"Oh, leave it." A none-too-steady hand emerged to flip dismissively. "Third time's the charm, isn't that what they say?"

"A lot you know about charm." But he left it there, in the no doubt vain hope Sherlock would actually drink it this time.

He was halfway out the door when Sherlock drawled, "Not going to take my vitals then, Doctor?"

"Sherlock," John said, not turning, "if I come near you right now I'll strangle you, which will defeat the purpose of having saved your life. Monitor your own vitals. I'm sure you can manage without me. You certainly seem to think--" He cut himself off and exhaled sharply. "Just--never mind. I'll be back with your medication in an hour."

Sherlock began to reply, or tried to; he was overtaken by a bout of deep, harsh coughing, and John's aborted anger was forgotten in Sherlock's struggle to control it. His eyes went wide as his lungs heaved; he lurched up on his elbow and almost fell off the side of the bed in his panic. John was beside him in a second, grabbing a handful of tissues from the bedside table to catch the mess of pink froth Sherlock was coughing up. He wedged himself behind Sherlock's hunched-over body and gripped trembling shoulders, drawing Sherlock upright to lean against his chest. Sherlock's hands were fisted hard in the bedclothes, flexing and releasing as he fought to expel the fluid and clear his lungs. John kept one hand on Sherlock's shoulder and held a constant supply of clean tissues to his lips with the other until the worst of it was over.

Sherlock slumped forward and nearly toppled over. His face was flushed a deep red and slicked with sweat, staring at nothing while his mouth worked and his breath didn't come. John caught him and started a low-voiced chant of, "Breathe with me, Sherlock, come on, slow and easy, breathe, in-two-three, out-two-three, that's it, nice and slow …"

He could hear Sherlock fighting to match his in- and exhalations to the rise and fall of John's chest. He dropped the last sodden clump of tissue and took Sherlock's hand, holding it to his own chest, trying to breathe as slowly and evenly as he could.

"Breathe in." A short, spluttering inhale. "Good. Out, slower if you can." Shuddering explosive exhale, a worrying rattle at the end of it. "Another, with me. In--slower, that's it … okay, let it go. One more. Not too deep. Okay, good."

Sherlock's head was heavy against his right shoulder, his frame shaking with the effort of suppressing another paroxysm. After a minute he twisted around and put his head on John's chest, exhausted and defeated by his own body. A small and broken part of John hurt at the sight.

Slowly, Sherlock's breathing went from hoarse gasps to deeper, stuttering gulps, and then it evened out and he was able to sit up without John's support. There was a mostly-untouched jug of water and a glass on the table; he filled it and Sherlock drank without demur, swallowing carefully. He looked better afterward, although when the flush receded he was still far too pale. John shifted to the edge of the bed and didn't think about how it felt to let go.

"All right?" John said finally, and waited for Sherlock's grudging nod before he got to his feet. They rearranged the bedding in silence, John tucking a fallen pillow behind Sherlock's back with all the detachment he could muster.

"Drink your tea," he ordered, not looking at Sherlock. "And some more water. And _sleep_."

Sherlock didn't answer. John made it all the way to the sitting-room before he allowed his knees to buckle.

* * *

_\--he wasn't breathing, no movement, nothing at all showing behind blank slate eyes, and he was cold and wet and white as--and he wasn't_ breathing _, so John breathed for both of them until help came._

* * *

He made himself a coffee and tried to enjoy the petty pleasure of having something he'd denied Sherlock. Instead, he sat in his armchair and stared into the cup while the quiet pressed in from all sides. The urge to go back upstairs and take up residence in Sherlock's room until he was better was almost overwhelming. The urge to leave the flat for fear of letting out his emotions was just as strong.

"Damn it," he whispered to the empty room, his breath hitching on the words.

John set his jaw and put the coffee aside. The silence began to break up, small sounds filtering in: the quiet murmur of Mrs Hudson's telly, the constant rushing drone of traffic. Normal, welcome, domestic sounds. They enfolded him, drew him into a light doze, his wire-taut nerves slowly unwinding in the mid-morning lull. He took a deep breath, and another. Sleep beckoned, promising a respite; no dark tearing images of cold wet death, not on such a lovely day as this. The sun streamed in through the windows, bright and clean, erasing all shadows. John's eyes slipped closed.

* * *

_\--he wasn't breathing, no movement, nothing at all showing behind blank slate eyes … and then he_ was _moving, he was sitting up and there was icy water cascading down his blue-white skin like blood and Sherlock was turning wide dead eyes and a wide dead smile on him and saying, "You can't save everyone, John."_

_It was a dream, he knew it was a dream, but he found his mouth opening anyway. "I can bloody well try."_

_Sherlock tittered, his cold blank face masklike, unmoving. "Can't save me. Can't even save yourself, can you? You'd be dead by now if not for me."_

_"Look who's talking," John managed through dust-dry lips and throat._

_Sherlock tilted his head coquettishly. "It_ is _you talking, John. I'm a dead man."_

_He grinned again, face utterly empty, and dropped back against the concrete so hard his head rebounded with a sickening thud. He wasn't breathing, no movement, nothing at all showing behind--_

* * *

It was the second thud, the real one, that woke him. John started in his chair and looked around. His heart was pounding. The flat was quiet, but he knew what he'd heard.

Sherlock. Upstairs. _Falling--_

* * *

"Did you think I was joking about the ambulance?"

He watched Sherlock from the doorway with deceptive calm, arms crossed as he leaned against the jamb. The idiot was splayed out on the floor, one leg tangled in blankets, his hands resting on his laptop three inches from his damn fool head. His laptop which was not on the desk where John had last seen it.

Sherlock looked up at him with a cautious expression. "I was just …" he started.

"I don't care," John cut in. "Whatever you wanted, whatever absolutely crucial thing that couldn't wait--I don't give a toss. You have a _life-threatening_ bout of pneumonia after being blown up into a swimming pool, Sherlock. You should still be in intensive care, for--you could still die if your lungs don't heal! This isn't a fucking summer cold!"

"What?" Sherlock actually looked startled. It didn't suit him. "I don't want to--I was only--"

"I don't _care_!" John shouted. Sherlock flinched, and he felt sick.

"Sorry. I--sorry. I shouldn't have done that." John rubbed his hands over his face and sighed. "Let's get you back in bed."

He stepped forward to get him off the floor. Mercifully, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and helped as much as he was able. For his part, John touched Sherlock only as much as was necessary to make him comfortable, stuffing down the parts of himself that wanted to grip and shake, hold close and bury his face in limp black hair. John avoided looking at him through the process of settling him back in bed, although he could feel Sherlock's gaze like a physical touch.

"You're angry with me. No, you're furious," Sherlock said in tones of dawning realisation. "And it's not just the pneumonia, it's … John, I'm sorry I couldn't keep you out of it. I didn't think Moriarty would use you. I tried to--"

"I don't want you to keep me _out of it_ , Sherlock! I want you to trust me!"

Once it was out, he felt calmer. He blew out a careful breath and stepped back.

"We'll talk about it later," he said.

"We'll talk about it now," Sherlock declared, sitting upright. "John, it wasn't a question of trust. I'm not accustomed to--this," he finished, gesturing awkwardly between them. "I didn't want--you're too--" He let out a frustrated noise, clasped his hands together, and closed his eyes. "It seemed better to deal with Moriarty alone. You were already too much at risk."

John looked at the strained lines of Sherlock's face, the obvious effort it took for him to turn his head and meet John's gaze. His hands plucked restlessly at the blankets in his lap.

"You don't get to decide what's too much risk," John said at last. "I'm not--this isn't just a lark to me, Sherlock. I'm not in it just for the clever deductions and flashy reveals." He held the look. "I want to do this with you. I think it's important. And I think you need me. So just-- _let me_. Okay?"

He felt very strange, standing there waiting for Sherlock's answer; he was still angry, but he badly wanted Sherlock to understand what he was saying and accept it. Accept _John_ , as more than a flatmate with a taste for adventure and a flair for dramatic prose. He wanted--

"A partnership," Sherlock murmured, staring at John as if he'd never seen him before. "Interesting."

John raised his chin a fraction and didn't so much as blink.

"Fine." Sherlock clapped his hands, the sharp crack dispelling the growing tension. "I'll refrain from secret rendezvous with homicidal maniacs in future, at least without informing you first. And you …" He eyed John consideringly. "What is it you bring to this endeavour, John?"

"Common sense," John said dryly. "And my superior tea-making abilities, of course."

Sherlock's lips quirked. "Of course." He sobered then, and shot John an odd, brief look that from anyone else John would have called … wistful.

"Speaking of tea," he began, and John let out a sharp sound of amusement.

"No," he said. "Absolutely not. I am not bringing you another perfectly good cuppa so you can turn your nose up at it. In case you've forgotten, Sherlock, you are supposed to be sleeping--I'm really not joking about the ambulance, by the way--and I have things to do that don't involve dancing attendance on you all day."

There was that look again; it flashed over Sherlock's face so fast John might have missed it if he'd blinked. Fortunately, Sherlock wasn't the only person capable of making intuitive leaps. It only took a few seconds for John to think back over the events of the past twenty-four hours and draw a simple and blindingly obvious conclusion that sent his mood careening in the opposite direction.

"Oh my God, you're an idiot," he said abruptly. "I'm going downstairs. No. _Stay._ " He pointed at Sherlock, surprised when it actually worked and Sherlock sank back against the pillows. His bewilderment was, John privately admitted, just a bit enjoyable, and no less than he deserved.

"Why he couldn't just _ask_ , I'll never know," John muttered as he marched down the stairs to the sitting-room. "Stupid bloody fool, thinks he's invulnerable. Probably fall to pieces if a kitten mewed at him."

He went on muttering as he retrieved his laptop, notes and pen, put the kettle on, "--for the last bloody time, I swear to God--" and carried everything back upstairs in two trips.

"Shut up," he ordered as he re-entered Sherlock's room with the tea. "You're a massive pain in the arse, your emotional maturity is stunted somewhere around the age of ten, and you _will_ drink this tea or I will hold your nose and pour it down your throat." He put the tea-tray next to his laptop on the cluttered desk, shoved a mug into Sherlock's hands, and kicked the desk chair around until he could straddle it backwards, facing the bed.

"Thank you for the tea," Sherlock said demurely. He sipped it with apparent satisfaction. "It's perfect, as usual."

"Tosser," John replied amiably. He watched Sherlock suppress a smile. "Drink and for the love of God, or science, or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, do me the favour of closing your remarkable eyes and stop looking so much like a raccoon."

"You're very ranty today." Sherlock sipped again. "There's no--my _what_? And what the hell is a Flying … whatever it is?"

John closed his eyes and begged for patience.

"We'll have a long discussion about alternative religion in the internet age when you wake up," he said. "And don't fish for compliments; it's beneath you." He rolled his eyes when Sherlock grinned, then cleared his throat. "Will you sleep now, please? I know you feel wretched and you want to pretend it's not happening, but that'll only make things worse. And it's no picnic to watch you suffer, you know."

The surprise in Sherlock's face was just a little bit heartbreaking. He nodded and finished his tea in silence. John twisted around in the chair and opened his laptop.

"Don't touch anything on the desk," Sherlock said. "It's all in perfect order."

"Shut up and count sheep," John shot back.

Sherlock muttered something under his breath in reply, but John heard the rustling of blankets and knew that he was finally, finally lying down. The impossible _git_.

* * *

When John looked around half an hour later, Sherlock was nestled in the blankets, sound asleep. He was almost as white as the sheets but for the shadows under his eyes, and John could hear the rattle in his breathing as his lungs fought to work against the strain of infection. He'd still do better if he'd stayed in hospital, but now that John had hit on the secret to making him sleep, things should be easier. For both of them.

He snorted quietly and shook his head. Easy was relative, with Sherlock.

"All you had to do was _say_ something, you great halfwit," he whispered. "Would've saved us both a lot of trouble." The easiest and hardest thing in the world, for a man who found the company of others disruptive at best.

 _Not all others_ , John told himself, and felt a warm pleasure at the thought.

Some time later, when the desk chair grew too uncomfortable and Sherlock's wide mattress too inviting, John relocated on the pretext of keeping a closer eye on his patient. Some time after that, the stress of the past few days and the comfort of Sherlock's bed combined to lure John into sleep, fingers paused over his keyboard as he leaned against the wall.

Some time even later, when he half-surfaced from a dream of soft, undefined warmth, he found himself lying down on top of the blankets, his laptop closed at the foot of the bed and Sherlock's sleeping face turned toward him.

John looked down at the slim fingers clutching a handful of his jumper, and slid back into sleep with a smile.

END

**Author's Note:**

> I'd already finished writing this by the time I got round to experiencing 'Go The Fuck To Sleep' on YouTube. I think this interpretation of John would fall over laughing if someone ever gave him a copy, n'est-ce pas?


End file.
